The Signed Prints of Vince Noir
by SallySorrell
Summary: Vince Noir is set on finally becoming a serious artist - the type to stay up late and fall in love without provocation. The exact type of artist Howard Moon has been for years, as long as his muse is nearby. But Naboo insists on splitting them up. The story of a portrait, a magic box, an anonymous musician, and the creamy novel which weaves them all together.
1. The Connection

The thought finally occurred to Howard - arriving symbolically with the cold gust of air from the open window - that he would have to face criticism.

All art did.

He was sometimes capable of convincing himself that his latest work was faultless - it was based on actual, perfect events from his own life, after all - but then he felt he was giving away too many personal details. Even Vince would be able to figure out the substituted character names, if he bothered to read it.

Without Vince in the flat, and simultaneously playing around in the poetic pastures of Howard's mind, he found he was able to quickly and accurately assemble his novel. It was an exploration of their relationship, since a certain stunted birthday party, with narrative assistance from Howard's heart, which found its way to the brain controls too frequently, these days.

Howard tried to speak, to summarise the moment and emotion before it escaped him, but found typing to be easier. He was working through a lengthy description of that night, after they'd kissed, when Vince found him sulking in the bedroom and insisted on holding his hand. He had to find a way to make this all sound acceptable; it had worked out well in the end, even if he felt sick with embarrassment and confusion at the time.

"It's nice," Howard finally said, "to have Vince away for a bit."

Naboo glanced up from his pipe, relieved that Howard managed to finish the thought. His voice still lacked the necessary conviction, but at least he stuffed some words together.

"Get some work done, eh?" he continued, quietly. Because Naboo was glaring and twisting his fingers torturously over the gem-studded tubing.

"Wha'd'you want?"

Howard rested his fingers over the centre line of keys. His thinking pose.

"Sorry," he said, "just thought it'd be nice to have some intelligent conversation for once."

He wished he had a pipe to play with, although not the kind Naboo offered him. Instead, he set one hand against his chin to graze the stubble.

"I thought you liked Vince," Naboo countered. He made a show of using his pipe, now, knowing Howard was running out of things to do.

"I w-"

"Like, _really_ liked him," Naboo continued.

"I do," Howard said. He rushed to add "not like that," to shut Naboo up, even though this was now officially untrue.

He typed another line. His best yet. An ideal topic for intelligent and out-of-practice conversationalists to spar with. He stretched.

"But he can't think for himself… just does whatever everyone else is doing, gets us all into trouble, and then laughs about it. Almost like he - like he _likes_ \- hurting me? It's easier to write when he's not here, in any case."

"You writin' about him, then?"

" _What_?"

He was. About the way their fingers fit together, and the spoonful of syrup Vince stirred into his voice when he asked if Howard 'needed' their beds pushed together for the night. At the memory, Howard found himself saying, 'yeah.'

Naboo muttered something about Bollo owing him a tenner, while Howard tried and failed to recapture his creative 'flow.' That's what Vince used to call it, every time he interrupted it.

As he did, again. Every time, Howard reminded himself that this was something he should expect, followed by the inexplicable and cascading hope that _next time_ would be different.

"All right, Naboo," Vince's voice crept in from the staircase, preceded by the sound of his heeled boots meeting the wood. "Hey, Howard."

"Yeah," Howard sighed back.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Howard replied, "I'm trying to write."

Writing, luckily, was the least flimsy of Howard's fleeting passions, and, even more luckily, was one he was good at. By now, after a few years of it, Vince knew that Howard lost more of his communication skills during his writing process, trading them for prose and selling them immediately to anything that could pass as poetry. Vince did not expect much of a conversation.

"I got new canvases," he said, parting with the sequined shopping bag he wore over his shoulder.

Vince's painting process was very much the opposite of Howard's writing one. He would talk endlessly about his inspiration, give constant instructions to whoever volunteered to pose for him, and would generally talk until Howard was exhausted just from listening.

Howard rarely disputed the amount of talent involved in producing a meaningful painting, but he certainly regarded it as easier than writing. It was capturing a butterfly in one's hands, preserving a moment. Writing was trying to persuade a tiger to slip itself into a collar, and to walk willingly on a lead, for the rest of its life. Something like that, and he scribbled it down in his cream-coloured notebook.

"I'm gonna have another go at you," Vince removed one of the canvases from his bag, and set it out on the table. "You can stay and write and everything… I'll get the typewriter in, too. It'll be well vintage. Might even do it in black and white…"

Naboo exhaled a cloud of the steamy smoke, for the sole purpose of peering through it.

"So you're finally gonna be a serious artist, are you?"

Usually, Naboo's lopsided attempts at compliments were directed at Howard. He was trying to adapt his new note about authors and tigers into a defense when he realised it was _Vince_ Naboo was attacking. Vince knew already, and deciphered Naboo's tone better than Howard could.

"Yeah, I won't be needing any'a your magic on this one."

"Whatever," Naboo's voice was thin, scraped down by the smoke, "BTEC Nationals don't pay bills."

"Yeah," Vince repeated, "whatever." He propped the canvas up on the table, and dug a packet of pencils and fine brushes from the box by the stairwell. He was genuinely trying to be quiet and unintrusive, so Howard could continue his work. But this was all instantly undone by Naboo, who enjoyed standing and tossing down the pipe before announcing he was going to the shop, if anyone needed owl beaks. It was his favourite joke, because he had to force the other two to understand it. He liked seeing them uncomfortable, for a change. Or at least one of them.

Howard rolled his eyes. 'Uncomfortable' was one of the few emotions he was able to both display and internalise, for what would, in any other case, be an impressively long amount of time.

Naboo promised he would 'just get a couple' as he moved down the stairs, completely satisfied with himself.

"Can't you paint someone else?" Howard tried to sound helpful, but tripped and fell into impatient on the way, "Might be giving Naboo the wrong idea, there."

"You think _I'm_ givin' him the wrong idea?" Vince countered, "Isn't your novel about _me_?"

Howard was fairly certain Vince hadn't committed to reading it ("I can't read more than a line of yours at a time, it gives me a headache") and wondered if his face had finally done something distinctive and given him away. Vince's thoughts, as usual, were skipping along the same line, eager to disprove him.

"You're good practice," he said, "With your face, I can fill up a whole gallery and say it's anyone."

"Yeah, and you're filling up loads of galleries, aren't you?"

"I've still published more books than you 'ave."

Howard squinted at him.

"That's… not what this is about."

Vince's automatic response was to widen his eyes and smirk.

"I think it is."

Howard tugged the half-finished paper out of the typewriter bay, and set it over the keys instead. Part of him wanted to crumple it up, another part wanted to rip it into thousands of pieces, and the final part made a convincing case for reading it aloud immediately. _Not entirely sure where that last one came from_ , he thought, shaking his head.

"I didn't mean you should stop," Vince's voice was softer now, and he took the seat beside Howard at the table. "Read me a line of it, go on."

"Just one line?"

"Yeah, any one you want. Hit me."

It was, as the stack of finished pages and dog-eared notebooks suggested, impossible for Howard to limit his feelings for Vince to one sentence. He tried, several times before, but every hopeful typeset line quickly turned into one of disappointment and tipp-ex.

"I'd, er… I'd have to think about that."

Defeatedly, Vince tossed his hands. He was always trying to get Howard to 'live', as they both reluctantly put it, and do things without thinking about everything that could go wrong, first. By the time Howard compiled a list of possible negative outcomes, he was paralysed - too worried about any of them happening to go through with it.

"Whatever," Vince shrugged, "I'm gonna go with Naboo, anyway."

"You just got back from the shops."

"Yeah," Vince said, tilting his head toward the coat-hooks, "I'm goin' again."

* * *

Vince was thankful that Naboo was only capable of such comparatively short strides. He had no trouble catching him, about halfway to his destination.

"Thought so," Naboo said, before Vince even entered his line of vision. Vince muttered 'what?' and 'christ!' to himself, before Naboo shrugged and greeted him more conventionally.

Vince dropped his hand after waving, feeling ridiculous.

"What'd you mean, 'thought so'?"

"Thought Howard would bore you to tears, too."

Vince blinked at him, unsure. Naboo adjusted his turban.

"Oh," he said slowly, tapping the side of his nose. "Lovers' tiff."

"I don't think so."

Naboo slid his hands into the robe's deep pockets.

"Couple years late, if I'm honest. You gotta fight back. Can't just let him suck the life out of you like he does."

"Are y-?"

"I thought he was a demon the first time you introduced us. Kept trying to find him in m' book. And I _know_ Bollo's ripped a few pages out. He's gotta be in those," he gave a decisive nod. "I can feel it."

"Are you trying to tell me Howard's a-?"

"I am, flat out," Naboo said. "Suckin' the life outta you."

He lifted a fistful of reddish dust from one pocket, and threw it on the path in front of them. It only succeeded in staining some fallen leaves and thickening a puddle of standing rainwater. He swore to himself and tried the slightly darker red dust, from the other pocket.

Then he vanished.

Vince sighed, and knew better than to call after him. He would finish his walk into town alone with his thoughts. And they were being cooperative. Usually, when he managed to get time alone to think, all his mind could come up with were dogs in neon chelsea boots, or flowers growing upside-down from conservatory ceilings. This time, he was met with the painfully clear image of Howard, wielding an industrial hoover, knocking at the front door in his brain, and his secretary could think of nothing to say. She looked older than Vince thought she should, anyway, with an extra layer of concealer too obviously framing her eyes. Was that Howard's fault? Vince wished he would go away.


	2. Don't Touch Anything

Vince found himself to be incapable of multitasking. While his brain worked on limiting Howard's time inside, his secretary clicked him onto the most common course he took through the supermarket. She leaned back in her seat, rolled her eyes, and encouraged Vince to put together exact change from within his wallet so they could return home as quickly as possible. "Not now, Howard," she kept saying, even when he volunteered to help count coins.

Howard's voice succeeded in snapping him out of his autopilot adventure, after he returned to the flat and set the netted carton of satsumas vaguely near the middle of the kitchen table. Vince noticed he was still behind the typewriter, with the piles of paper on either side of him now noticeably taller.

"Vince?" Howard had to say it several times, before catching his eyes, "You alright?"

"Alright," Vince blinked and nodded and sat down. He felt uncomfortably insignificant in that moment, as if he'd managed to lose weight during the course of his walk. He shifted in his chair, crossing his legs three different ways before giving up and standing. Still, he could feel Howard's eyes darting over him, stripping more of him away.

"Are you…?" Vince began, forcing his secretary to take a break and promising to rely on Naboo's input for a moment instead, "Are you writing about me still?"

As easily as one could mistake Vince for being unique and unapologetically individual, Howard knew the opposite was true. Vince would step into things with expectations instead of preparations. Or something like that. He would have to find an early page of his notes, from when he and Vince first started properly working together, back at the zoo.

"Yeah," Howard said slowly, "You _sure_ you're okay?"

What he heard, instead, was Naboo insisting some shifty life-draining activity was going on; Howard's guilty, ineffectual eyes did not help the situation.

Vince slid the stack of books, made alternately up of Howard's own notes, dictionaries for reference, and novels he pretended to enjoy, toward his workspace. He set the little box of fruit on top, making it the perfect height to lean his canvas against. The pens and fine-point brushes were still there, but he felt fully inspired now. He dashed off to their bedroom, digging his favourite hand mirror out of his vanity, and a collection of folded paint tubes and frayed brushes from a box beneath his bed. All of this, he threw dramatically across the table. Howard had not typed a thing since Vince arrived, and would not be able to start soon, by the look of things.

With an unnecessarily dramatic _puff_ of light and sound, Naboo appeared at the top of the stairwell.

"Beauty's genius," he said, while Vince stuffed the handle of his mirror into the back of the carton, "Stay young."

He patted Vince's shoulder, but Vince did not turn to acknowledge him. Naboo and Howard stared at each other for a moment, until Naboo squirmed and retired to his room.

Vince, though, did not move his focus from his own reflection. Howard wanted to make a comment about the ridiculousness of it all - the vanity, the drama - but he remained silent. Vince hardly even looked at the canvas while he sketched. He squeezed some paint out of every bottle onto the plate he had forgotten to clear from breakfast that morning. Crumbs of pancake clung to the tone he used for highlights in his skin, while sugar thickened the deepest of his hair colours. He did not seem to notice, even as he dappled these expertly over the canvas. His face, he swore, winked back at him. Howard stood.

"I don't want you looking at it," Vince said, pencil hanging from his lips. This was a habit he picked up from Howard when trying to focus; he removed it immediately to solidify his argument. Howard took a slow step back and pushed in his chair.

"I don't get caught in your reflection, sir," Howard said, "Not like you do."

Vince huffed. This was easily his best work, and he wouldn't have Howard draining it, censoring it, or otherwise.

" _Shh_!"

Howard replied with his 'modest and shocked' face, which usually met Vince when he swore, muttering about how he was ruining his innocent image with that kind of talk.

"You're not lookin' at it," Vince continued, "It's not even done."

"Yeah, neither's my novel."

"I don't ask to see your novel though, do I?"

Howard ducked his head, trying to catch the best proportion of light from the window behind him. He would be content with seeing through the canvas, and accepting the image backward. Vince had a habit of outlining his works thickly with black. Howard once mentioned that this seemed like a jazzy thing to do, while Vince maintained it was retro. He said he had to have something unique to his art style, which Howard would never understand properly.

"You _did_ ," Howard said, "You were asking to see it 'bout an hour ago. What's gotten into you?"

"You have," Vince used the smug monotone that always dominated his work sessions, "You're in my mind with a hoover."

"What?"

"Sucking out all the good bits. All the colours, 'til the walls and floor and ceiling and _everything_ 's creamy beige. Gettin' it all on my clothes as well."

"What are y-?"

" _I'm painting_."

"Something's off, Vince. You've-"

"Shh," Vince said again, "Can't you leave me alone?"

Howard guessed that, yes, he could manage that. They weren't physically conjoined, after all, and he could easily go into their - _his_ , for now - bedroom, and shut the door. He could even lock it, if he wanted to. Yes sir, he could leave Vince alone.

"Fine," Howard said, hoping he sounded edgy and angry. He thought about slamming the door, but knew the turning of the rarely-used lock would be loud enough to make his point. Vince just shrugged, said 'unbelievable' to himself, and returned enthusiastically to his work.

* * *

The house was silent well into the next night, with staccato music only occasionally bleeding out of Howard's headphones. Vince did not move from his post, either sitting or kneeling on the chair to see himself from whatever angle was necessary. Naboo was more than happy to have the chance to stay in his room and sleep. It was Sunday; the shop was closed.

On Monday morning, just past three, the lock of the bedroom door clicked backward. Howard crept out, all wrinkled dressing gown and thoroughly matted hair, apart from the spots where the headphones spent hours flattening it. He and Vince were both prone to forgetting to eat, especially when focused on something creative. They could still be arguing or apart or whatever they were while Howard made them tea and toast. Cut with zigzags down the middle, and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, as Vince liked it. They could still be arguing, maybe, if he made the cuts slightly softer, rounder. Or put too much cinnamon. Maybe nutmeg instead. He had time to think of something, while the water warmed.

Vince only turned when he heard the kettle ignite. Howard was there, staring more intently at it than necessary, trying to prove he was altogether uninterested in whatever Vince was wasting his time with.

"Still don't look at it," was all Vince said, "It's drying, now."

"Oh," Howard only succeeded in sounding bored because this was his default tone, "Finished with it, are ya?"

"Yeah, 'course I am."

Howard wanted to ask why - if at all - Vince was upset with him. But perhaps this was just his creative process. Howard had one, too, and was willing to understand a new collection of quirks if it was necessary for production. His question was hesitant and - he hoped - subtle.

"Do you, um, need any more time to yourself?"

The kettle switched off, and Howard set to pouring the water into their respective cups while it was still boiling. He didn't think it was fair to say that he'd enjoyed _his_ time to himself, which was occupied mostly by trying to settle on _their_ new musical direction, sorting through _Vince's_ wardrobe, and generally thinking too much about the moment _they_ would be back together. Vince felt more neutral, pleased with his work, but desperately hungry and stuck in his seat under the watchful eyes of his portrait.

"Yeah," Vince said flatly, "This is the best thing I've ever done."

Howard's heart was as melodramatic as the rest of him, faltering for a moment and wondering if it was worth it to continue on to the next beat. Waiting to make a decision, until...

"Naboo's gonna love it," Vince continued.

Howard bit back more words than he'd ever managed to think of at once. Some were sad, some desperate, some apologetic. Some were angry, as if Vince had been directly criticising him. He shoved Vince's cup across the counter and shuffled back to the bedroom, twisting one hand over his forearm as he went.

Vince stared forward, settled perfectly between sleepy and satisfied, and reached for his teacup without thinking.

He took it with him, as he left to knock at Naboo's door.

* * *

Howard stood, legs back against Vince's bed, glaring at a suitcase. He dug out the biggest one he owned - tweed and worn corners and probably older than he was - and propped it open on his bed. His headphones and a vest were the only things in it so far, but he had to start somewhere. What else would he need, to trudge through time without Vince there to distract him? Novels, probably. His notebooks.

These were still waiting on the table in the kitchen. He had not heard anything from that direction in nearly an hour, other than the muffled closing of Naboo's door. He assumed Vince had given up, made himself look desperate, and curled up on the chaise in Naboo's room. _Fine_ , Howard made himself needlessly jealous, _see if he can replace me, won't we?_

He returned quietly to the kitchen, where he heard excited whispers creeping in from Naboo's room. Might as well get a look at the painting, if Vince was engaged with his new… whatever Howard had been to him. Vince put no time into choosing a term for their relationship. The thought never occurred to him.

Howard shook his head, admittedly amazed at what he saw on the canvas. Vince had spent enough time studying his reflection to recreate it, of course, but this bordered surprisingly on realism. Except, if Howard was being critical, the lines around his eyes were too dark and too thick. Howard hadn't seen him wear that much eyeliner since college.

It would have to come off.

Suddenly, as he reached for the paint-covered plate, he understood how Vince must've felt some nights, staring back and forth between a sleeping Howard and a shining pair of scissors. Well, this would make them 'even' then, wouldn't it? Howard took up the nearest brush, dipped it in what looked like the whites of Vince's eyes, and took care of it. This was the best thing Vince had ever done, and now it was objectively better.

He crossed the brush carefully over the plate, then exchanged this for his stacks of paper. He did not hear the door opening, over the crinkling of the pages as he gathered them against his chest. Vince stood behind him, and jabbed two fingers into his back, to stop him stumbling any further.

"What you doin'?"

Howard swallowed uncomfortably.

"I wanted to keep these with me," he lifted his arms, to indicate the papers. One fell; Vince watched it without moving to retrieve it. Howard turned to face him, guessing his shoulders would still be covering the painting sufficiently.

They did not. Vince threw one hand over Howard's shoulder, digging in with his thumb.

"What've you done _that_ for? Naboo's not even _seen_ it yet… he was gonna get prints of it done for the shop and everythin', and you just-!"

Naboo arrived, assuming Vince was calling for him and guessing he was distressed.

"What's going on in here?" he demanded.

Vince stepped aside, to properly indicate that this was, in fact, Howard's fault. But Naboo saw the painting, and immediately praised it with more enthusiasm than anyone guessed he was capable of showing.

"You're right," he said, directly at Vince, "That _is_ the best thing you've ever done."

Howard's eyes flickered at Vince, then the canvas, then back at Vince, brows raised and expecting an apology. Vince leaned his head in near Howard's shoulder. Close enough.

"Cheers, Naboo."

"Oughtta be dry now, yeah? I'm gonna get started on copies."

Vince gave him a charming smile and enthusiastic nod. Howard rolled his eyes, because Vince had - yet again - lied about something without planning for repercussions.

And he hadn't given Howard any credit either. Which made shutting his suitcase much, _much_ easier.

"See you later, then," Howard said, already down the stairs. Vince rushed after him, complaining that he had to stop silently creeping around like that.

"It's four in the morning," Vince replied. Howard didn't think this showed an appropriate interest in where he was going, or what he was doing. He convinced himself to slam the door, nearly. The bells above it clanged as he went.

By the time Vince caught sight of the suitcase, over-polished corners catching tinny moonlight, Howard was too far down the street.


	3. The Not-Bad Day

Whenever he was with Naboo, Vince realised he was overseeing two separate conversations. But he and Howard had been like that, a long time ago, and they'd gotten better. He wondered how long he would have to wait for Howard to come back, this time, and rescue him from it. Or if he could get into some sort of groove with Naboo instead. Whichever came first was fine.

"It's still wet, you muppet!" Naboo waved his hands over the canvas. He had already assembled a stack of blank posters , to press copies into. Magically, of course.

He made a fist, which sucked the image into his hand, and then threw it dramatically over the waiting blanks.

"Howard's gone!"

Naboo made two more copies before even turning to look at Vince.

"Give it a week."

"What'm I s'posed to do?"

"Chuck us a Sharpie, yeah?"

"Naboo-!"

The shaman summoned the marker himself, forced it into Vince's hand, and pushed him down into the chair. The prints were lined up across the countertop.

"I want these numbered and signed. See how many we sell in a day."

"D'you reckon he'll come back?"

"Probably a hundred, yeah? I'll do a hundred, for now."

Giving up, Vince shook his head and popped the cap off of the marker. He made curly numbers on the back of each picture, wondering which would match up with Howard's return.

* * *

Howard managed to ignore most of Lester Corncrake's overbearing hospitality and accompanying laughter. Other than Lester's insistence he was always happy to help a fellow Veteran ("how old do you think I am?") and his promise that he would not take any rent for the first few weeks.

"I've brought money with me, it's not a-"

"I don't need money from you, Howard."

"Well, thanks very much."

"I need something else."

 _Here we go_ , Howard thought. He hadn't even seen his room yet, as Lester was still fumbling through an absurdly crowded ring of keys. One, he noticed, was a key for guitar tuning. But there was also a bottle opener and a safety pin fastened to the thing, so he refused to get too hopeful.

A worthwhile pursuit; the room turned out to be much smaller than promised, and had what seemed to be a stack of towels instead of a mattress, slinking through a pointy metal bed-frame.

He hoped that nearly two days without sleep would help him overlook this, at least for one night. Seemed like a balanced equation.

"What was it you wanted, Lester?"

It wasn't worth pointing out the lack of mattress, even as he set down his bag and watched the towels slip down lower in the centre.

"You ever heard of _New Faces of Pop_?"

* * *

Vince thought he must've had a good day. Maybe a great one, like Naboo told him as they sat idly in front of the television, Vince nibbling on chocolates while Naboo settled the sales figures for the day. Or watched them settle themselves, over enchanted paper. Vince crinkled up his collection of wrappers, cramming ten into his hand at once.

Without Howard there, requiring reassurance that every day wasn't a complete disaster, Vince had a hard time believing it himself. Naboo agreed with him too easily.

"Thirty-two prints in an hour," Naboo read, "And _Cheekbone_ want to do a section on your creative process."

Vince nodded, expecting to hear why this was actually terrible news. Nothing.

He rushed upstairs to call Howard, who answered his mobile in record-breaking time.

"Hey, Howard. I just needed to-"

"Can't remember how to get the oven on, hmm? Need me to shut the curtains in the bedroom? Wanted to-"

"Just needed to talk to you 's all. What's wrong with you?"

"Oh," Howard wasn't yet sure if he was meant to be pleased or disappointed, "What is it?"

"Naboo's got me like his slave or something. I had to open _and_ close today, all by m'self. He was just sat upstairs, making more copies."

"Don't let the fame go to your head, yeah?"

This was exactly the reason Vince called. Howard was the only person he knew who could stretch servitude logically into glamour.

"Yeah," he replied, "When you gettin' back?"

"Not for a while," Howard said, "Got a new job, now. New mates. I've found somewhere where I'm needed."

 _Who needs you more than_ _ **I**_ _do?_ Vince thought. He did not state it, though; he had an image to maintain. Even if it was transparent to Howard.

"I was thinking of going out tonight," he said instead, "You wanna meet me somewhere?"

He was used to Howard shaking his head 'no' and assumed that's what he was hearing. It must've been his hair, rustling across the speaker.

"I can't," he added, "I've got, er, Jazz Club."

"Ugh, you're starting _that_ rubbish up again?"

"Are you sure you didn't call just to insult me?"

"I don't know," Vince felt as if he'd been deflated, "I'll see you later."

Vince left the house, wandering habitually toward The Velvet Onion, only stopping at the sight of a particularly pathetic-looking beggar.

The man was hunched over a cane, occasionally lifting his gaze from behind his tattered sleeve to reveal a waxy green face. Vince only realised - as he fumbled at his side for a purse or wallet or whatever he felt like that day - that he hadn't grabbed any money on his way out of the flat.

"Evening," the stranger said, two fingers brushing the brim of his hat. He couldn't commit to tipping it, "Here to see the show, young lady?"

Vince kept walking, hands stuffed in his coat pockets.

"You shouldn't be out alone, lovely face like yours. What's your name?"

"It's Vince," he replied firmly. Sometimes, this was enough.

The stranger leaned back against his cane.

"You a geezer?"

He caught Vince's sleeve. Everyone working the current shift in Vince's brain shouted for Howard to do something. "He's not _here_ , you idiots," the secretary whined. She was usually on the phone with Howard's brain secretary, directly, and was the first to realise that Howard was out of their range for longer than usual. She fed Vince a thought from their last conversation: 'two can play at this game.'

He slipped his voice just slightly south, toward the accent his attacker used.

"If it means you'll leave me alone, I am."

"Sorry, Squire. I was looking for a lady who might like to spend the evenin' in m' _box_ seats."

Vince hoped it was a box the man was stooping to show him.

"Get off me, you're weird. _Howard_!"

But it was Bob Fossil, of all people, who heard this and came to his rescue. He wore a tie over his blue work-suit, and had a cup in one pocket and a thick book of tickets in the other. With passing disappointment, he asked "where is that loser? _Moon!_?" then immediately brightened upon noticing Vince was unaccompanied.

"Vincey, hey!"

The stranger retreated; he had no patience for Americans, least of all _that_ one. He felt like he had tried breathing under water, just looking at him.

"I'm a scalper," Fossil said, rather than reacting to the stranger, "D'you wanna see the show tonight?"

"What, at The Velvet Onion?" Vince tried to read the tickets before Fossil snatched them up and made a fan out of them. Vince complained, for the sake of his hair.

"Sorry," Fossil said. Then, "Yeah. They're _real_ good seats."

Part of him waited for Howard to point out that Fossil owned The Velvet Onion, and had no business scalping any tickets, especially not his own. But the rest of him was bored, skint, and enamored with favours.

"What's the gig?"

" _New Faces of Pop_. And bodies and clothes, too. I've gotta fill the front row with beautiful people for some magazines," he leaned in closer than Vince liked, framing his face with both hands, "What do you say, huh? I can get you popcorn."

"Okay," Vince said, "Just keep me away from that weirdo."

He tossed his head back, in the direction the stranger disappeared to. Fossil said he saw nothing.

* * *

Vince decided, fairly quickly, that he had not missed much in the world of pop. Maybe it had missed him, though. Six acts stumbled through the curtains, all feeling deplorably beige.

He was happy with his seat, however. Front row, as Fossil promised, but near the aisle. He found himself facing the accompanist, buried behind the lid of a grand piano, and caged between electronic keyboards on either side. Each keyboard had a sign draped over the front; one read 'New Faces of Pop' and the other read 'Vane.'

 _Vane_ , Vince thought. That was all.

By the eighth act, he found he was able to ignore the aggressively loud chewing of Fossil from the seat beside him if he set his mind on Vane instead.

Vane was, so far, faceless, constantly flipping pages of music. Vane wore black, and a jacket without a tie. Vince only caught momentary glimpses of Vane's hair, which he decided was meticulously curled and then foolishly shoved beneath a beret. It was as if Vane tried to look picturesque, but only barely passed patchwork.

" _Howard would like them,"_ his secretary sighed.

Vince widened his eyes. Naboo advised him to stay young, and he couldn't remember the last time he had been on this side of the classic 'falling in love with a stranger' situation. He felt a deep sense of satisfaction and clear personal growth; last time he had been out on his own without a wallet, he was happy to reverse the situation and accept free drinks from doe-eyed strangers.

Not this time.

He would try to like them, instead.


End file.
